


Queen of Ashes

by ShadowSong_17



Category: A Dance With Rogues
Genre: 16-yrs old Main Character, A Dance With Rogues - Freeform, ADWR, Abuse, Anger, Animal Death, Blood and Violence, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Chaotic Evil, Character Death, Child Death, Death, Deception, Explicit Language, F/M, Female Protagonist, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inner Dialogue, Minor Character Death, Monologue, Murder, Narrating Protagonist, Neverwinter Nights - Freeform, No Beta Testing, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, POV First Person, Panic Attacks, Past Character Death, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Retelling, Sexism, Sexual Content, Some Twists to Canon, Spoilers, Swearing, Violence, descent into evil, medieval setting, murderous intent, nwn module
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2020-12-09 07:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20991074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowSong_17/pseuds/ShadowSong_17
Summary: The musings of Princess Blackthorn as she reflects on her journey.(Currently on hiatus)





	1. Death of a Princess

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be very much canon compliant to the original NWN module, but hopefully (if the infamous writer's block doesn't strike and if life doesn't get in the way) it'll go beyond the original story and add post ending content. As such, some of my Princess's musings may end up coming across as obscure for someone who hasn't played the module, and many of the events narrated actually belong to Valine's creative vein, not mine.
> 
> And frankly, I'm writing this for myself, first and foremost. I quite enjoy A Dance With Rogues and make it a point to do a yearly replay of it, but roleplay-wise, Lyanna Blackthorn is the character who stole my heart. I hope she'll steal some of yours as well.

I've never liked the dark. Sometimes, rarely, when I have time - I still remember the feeling of my throat closing up, of my own ribcage closing in on my heart, whenever it was too dark in my room.

Those nights, when the servants forgot to light up the candles for me, I would just run to my Mother, barefooted on the cold stone floor, and beg her to let me sleep on her bed. More often than not, Mother would say yes. She would pick me off the ground, my small body warmed by her arms and by her soft silken nightgowns. And as I lay, curled up against her chest, I'd finally sleep peacefully. Not that Father wouldn't have said yes if I'd asked. But my parents had always slept in separate bedrooms, in the highest floor of the castle - for they were King Andrius Blackthorn and Queen Cassandra Antigua of Betancuria, and I their only daughter, Princess Lyanna Blackthorn.

Hearing that title spoken aloud still rattles me, sometimes.

But I suppose I should start from the very beginning. A story shouldn't start from its finale, after all, right? I learned that from my tutors - it feels like it's a lifetime ago, but it's only been two years.

And before I begin - you should know that I'm no longer afraid of the dark. I've long since learned that monsters do not need the cover of darkness to dwell among humans, and the dark has been nothing but helpful to me in the last two years.

I was just on the cusp of being sixteen when it happened - almost marriage age. A few months earlier, my Father had started presenting me to a variety of nobles in the hopes of finding me a good match, and I had to attend several events every week, each of them involving me wrapped up in a pretty gown and a host of well dressed men. I thought I hated it. Sometimes, I'd almost ripped my skirts off, the desire to run for the nearest exit almost overwhelming. I never did. To this day, I still don't know if I regret it or not - and frankly, it doesn't matter. I soon wouldn't have much use for dresses like that anyway. Not that I knew at the time - and I'm digressing again.

Anyway, the matches Father arranged with me were varied. I had to learn hundreds of names, genealogies, family histories. Some were nobles hailing from Betancuria itself, rich enough to be influential. Others, far fewer, came from abroad. Ambassadors, mostly, from either Sargoza and Dhorn - two of Betancuria's most influential neighbours. I thought, in my naiveté, that such a thing would mean that Betancuria and Dhorn were friends. Allies. Our soldiers were meant to fight back to back when the time came, and I most likely would marry into the Imperial Familia at some point of my life. After all, the Dhornish Emperor had many sons - for it was custom for the Dhorn to have concubines along with a single, lawfully wed wife. Any son bearing the Emperor's sacred blood was to be formally recognized as a potential heir - no matter whose belly had borne him.

Maybe you're wondering - what about daughters? Truth is, Dhornish women never get much of a say. In anything. I didn't know, at the time. That's not the sort of thing a Princess is supposed to worry about, and I was young and naive to boot. I just spent my a good portion of my time daydreaming about the handsome Dhornish prince I would marry.

I dreamed that he would come snatch me away from yet another boring royal party, riding on a beautiful white stallion, his own white teeth shining brilliantly in the candlelight. I would lay in his embrace as he carried me away, and I'd smell freedom on his clothes.

I dreamed that he would fight off every other suitor and best every single one of them with nary a scratch, smiling and laughing. He'd kneel at my Father's feet, asking for my hand - and my Father, his kind and warm smile firmly in place, would graciously consent.

I dreamed that our marriage would be grand, my gown blue and gold, bearing Blackthorn colors. My prince would wear a red and gold jerkin, Dhorn colors. He would lay his cape on my shoulder, marking me as his own, and finally - after months and months of courtship - we'd kiss for the first time.

This is the girl I used to be. She died on her sixteenth birthday.

Okay, I might be being a bit overdramatic, but try imagining that - how else would you describe something like that? Picture her: a sweet little thing, a willowy girl with big, doelike brown eyes and hair braided up with pearls and sapphires, wrapped like a present in a shiny gown especially tailored for her. A girl who would dream of a handsome prince carrying her away from her Court's boredom, a girl who would never imagine being anything else than what she was at the time: a Princess.

A girl like that - the person I used to be - could never have survived that day. If she wasn't strong enough, someone would've slit her throat in some alley after raping her, leaving her body for the crows to take. If she was, perhaps she would've slit her throat herself, unable to keep living in that postmortem condition. I was stronger than that. When your entire world crashes down burning, you either die or change. I chose the latter.

And it was that choice that allowed me to survive all of the shit I've seen.

Oh, maybe I took you off-guard with that, didn't I? What sort of respectable princess would ever use a word like that - and put it on paper, too? But as I said - I changed, a lot.

On my sixteenth birthday, the Dhorn had already been sieging us for three weeks. At the time, I didn't know what had sparked the war in the first place - I just spent my days hoping that the Dhornish Emperor would finally see reason. We hadn't done anything wrong, and here they were - soldiers covered in metal from head to toe, the red of their clothes setting them apart from Betancuria's blue and gold coats. I saw plenty of red, those days.

I remember it started slow, as slow as a siege can be. I was in the throne room when the messenger arrived, bearing the news. I had my ladies in waiting with me at the time - lovely women, I think. I don't think I ever really knew them, but I quite enjoyed gossiping with them in the late hours of the afternoon. We all broke in shocked gasps, along with half the room. I remember my Father's eyebrows twitching slighty. His blue eyes widening a fraction, just before he shooed me away - "Lyanna, go to your room", he said.

In the following weeks, I'd see less and less of him. The more the Dhorn closed in on us, the more he stayed in his Council room, with his advisors. I don't think I ever saw the place - young, little girls like me knew nothing of war. Girls like me were kept in their rooms, surrounded by anxious servants who still dressed them up in their pretty gowns and did their hair up and dusted their cheeks pink, and it was almost like nothing was happening at all.

My Mother was different. Most of the nobleladies gasped in horror, just like I did - but she didn't. The Queen of Betancuria was said to be made of steel and have a heart of gold. I never knew that side of her - the warrior queen. For me, she only ever had soft smiles and warm hugs, and the comfort of her arms when darkness was everywhere. But in those three weeks, she never offered me any smile. I remember there was a determined look in her eye, a glint of steel in her brown eyes - brown, just like mine. She would attend the War Council on my Father's side.

The day the messenger came - it was the last day I ever saw her.

I still miss her. I miss them both.

On my sixteenth birthday, the Dhorn finally broke into the castle. I remember looking out my window, early in the morning - the sky lit crimson by waves upon waves of glowing fire. The castle walls, the impenetrable stone walls I'd known all of my life, they were crumbling to pieces. And I was wearing a gown treaded in pearls and sapphires, my hair braided up by Shira, my favorite handmaiden, and my cheeks dusted pink, as I watched my life crumble into pieces. I think that's when my old self started dying.

I'd been anxious and on edge for weeks, wondering what would happen in the near future, but I was always hopeful. It's easy to be hopeful when destruction isn't quite laid so close to the front of your eyes. Shira was screaming, crying, begging me to stay away from the window - but I just looked on and on. Thinking back on it, it's lucky I wasn't hit by anything in that moment. Not a single shard of wood or stone cracked my windows. But the glass wasn't enough to muffle the sound of it.

You see, when it's in your fireplaces - the flames make their gentle, crackling sound, as the wood feeding them slowly turns into ash. But when it's on the outside, eating away at everything it can find, fire is a maddened monster. An insatiable predator, roaring for more even as it devours your clothes, your hair, as it makes your eye pop out in slimy jelly right out of your sockets.

Oh, do not worry, I do not have first hand experience of my eyes popping out of my sockets, or my face burning off like that. I wouldn't be writing now if I did, now would I? This said, I've seen my fair share of faces being melted off the skull and, truth be told, the sight still makes my stomach just a tiny bit queasy. Truth is, however, that revenge, with enough exposure, can curb any queasiness.

But the sound of a roaring fire is something I never gotten used to. Part of me freezes, my muscles locking up, locking me inside my own body, no matter how much I push and pull and scream inside. The human mind can be quite a curious thing. Sometimes, smells, sounds and touches are imprinted somewhere deep within your soul, along with any feelings they caused. I loathe to think of it, but the smell of burning tar and charred corpses still brings back what it felt like to start dying.

It was only a little while afterwards that some soldiers - wearing blue and gold, my soldiers - crashed into my room.

"Your Highness", one of them gasped. He was covered in armor from head to toe, but I recognized his voice - General Reyes, one of Father's most trusted men.

"Yes, General?"

My voice was like the quiet, hesitant hum of a little bird. Shira, trembling, approached my side. Just a minute ago we were discussing her helpful insights on what the Dhorn would do to us if they got in - namely, kill us and then rape us. Of course, she never used terms quite so strong - she just said they'd "kill us and defile our mutilated corpses". I remember being on edge, telling her to shut up, or else I'd make sure to fire her.

Yes, I was naive, but that didn't stop me from being spoiled and obnoxious.

Thinking back on it, I should've just embraced her. She was a servant, a skinny young girl of fourteen, red hair and a freckled face, the closest thing I had to a friend. I should've hugged her, and told her that soon, it would all be alright.

"The Dhorn have breached the castle, my Lady", his breath was still cut short, "The King has ordered to take you to safety. Please, my Lady, follow us."

I still remember what it felt like to die a little more, my heart dropping deep into my stomach in one resounding beat that sounded like it would be the last. I just nodded.

They led us out of my room, Shira and I, the girl trailing behind me as she always did. It only took but a second. We hadn't even crossed the corridor as Shira dropped on the ground, an arrow embedded between her shoulders. I didn't even hear the sound of the arrow being nocked and fired. I didn't hear anything but the sound of blood in my ears. Sometimes, I think that fate was merciful on her. All it took for her to die was a carefully aimed arrow. She died instantly. She was there one moment, and gone the next. I doubt she even felt her body crumple on the ground - but I watched it go.

I watched her die, because I was just turning towards her as the arrow hit. I don't know what I wanted to tell her. Maybe I wanted to apologize for my earlier outburst, tell her I didn't mean it, that I was anxious and on edge, but soon we'd be safe. But instead, I got to watch her life as it left her, as her eyes, brilliant for a moment, became duller the next. And she fell to the ground, an arrow sticking out of her torso, in what was no doubt a masterful shot.

A shot that'd been meant for me.

Her blood was the next thing I saw as it spilled onto the stone pavement. You should know that death is not pretty. Sometimes, the body still twitches after the brain has shut down, the nerve endings firing for the last time. Other times, the body goes slack immediately - muscles you barely knew you had do, and suddenly, blood is mixed with shit and piss. I don't know which one it was for Shira, and for that, I am infinitely grateful.

My guards roared, outraged, ready for battle. "Protect the Princess!"

It was the General who yelled that. I didn't get to see him die. I had enough wits left on me to run away before I did.

Running in a pearled gown isn't easy. It shouldn't be surprising to learn that I didn't get very far - a gauntleted hand grabbed me by the hair, tearing away my tiara. The jewel shattered on the ground, and I shrieked, loudly. "Let me go! Please! HELP!" I didn't know who it was that grabbed me. I didn't need to. Whoever he was, he jerked me towards him, my back bent backwards towards him. He grabbed me as I was still running, and it'd hurt. It hurt like hell.

Funny that I don't remember feeling it - I think my body was way too highstrung to feel anything but the desperate need to get away as soon as I possibly could. The smell of his breath assaulted my nostrils - alcohol and a hint of smoke, rancid and disgusting.

"Sir. This one must be a noble", he'd said.

I heard heavy footsteps as another Dhorn approached - this one an officer, I think. I remember looking at him - only to find metal staring back at me, in the form of a frightening helmet. It covered everything, even his mouth. But somehow, I knew he was sneering at me, as I trembled in the other soldier's grasp.

"Another Betancurian whore, is it?"

I paled. I'd never heard such a foul word used to describe me. I was the pretty Betancurian Princess, the envy of the noble houses. People begged for a chance to see me. Arrogant of me to think that, I know. But I thought it was the truth. I thought that the only Dhornish man to ever touch me would be the prince I daydreamed about, the one whose clothes smelled of freedom. But Dhornish men don't smell of freedom. That day, I learned they smelled of the blood pooled on their swords they hadn't bothered to wipe as they slaughtered my servants and my guards. They smelled of the sweat beneath their chainmail. They smelled of piss and shit. They smelled of death, rank and unpleasant and salty, one that made me want to vomit as the officer closed the gap between us and grabbed my jaw.

I died a little more as I spit on his face. My saliva hung on the edge of his helmet for just a moment.

"Bend her down."

The order was deadpan.

I don't think he even gave a fuck that a Betancurian whore had spit in his face - to him, I was already dead meat. The other soldier's grip shifted from my scalp to my shoulder blades. I died some more as he pushed and bent me, like I was a toy in his hands, my body too frail to even think about putting up some kind of resistance. I never did have strong muscles. But the instinct of self-preservation seized me up, and I fought. I fought with all the sheer desperation of a cornered animal, a minute away from death.

I could see the glint of metal as the officer raised his greatsword in front of me, my neck exposed, free for the taking. I never had strong muscles, but I was agile.

My first kick landed on an armored shin. The second landed where it mattered. The soldier behind me grunted in pain, tightened his grip on me, and tore off the back of my gown in his seizure. I heard the pearls as they scattered on the floor. Frankly, I could not give less of a fuck about them.

I just bolted, gathering my skirts as I did, running on instinct and adrenaline. I was scared. But I wanted to live. The consequences wouldn't catch up to me, until much later.

I didn't get the privilege to run until I ran out of breath. I remember soldiers screaming after me, the officer from earlier almost getting hoarse from all of his shouting - for just a second, I thought that perhaps I would have a chance. I was a hare and they were the foxes, but I was a _clever_ hare, I thought. The foxes were many, but they were dumb, only screeching after me, trying to catch me. The hare would outrun them, eventually.

But in truth, I never got very far.

One moment I was running, the next I felt arms grabbing me, a hand closing in on my mouth, silencing me. I kicked desperately, the last struggles of a dying hare, the fox's jaw snapping closed on its skin and drooling life out of its body. I was pulled off the corridor I was running in - in a side door used by servants, pulled into a room I'd never seen before. Later, I would learn that that was a laundry room - and all of the details I'd picked on as I was panicking would start to make sense, like the faint smell of sop mixed in with that of rotting wood. But in that moment, I was certain I was going to die, and I didn't think of anything but survival.

The hand that grabbed me - I don't know how, but I managed to bite on it, and I smelled the blood, the sweat, the rancid death of it as skin pressed up against my nose, tasted it too, biting deep enough to spill blood. He didn't make a sound. To this day, I don't think Vico ever noticed pain enough to make sounds of it. It was like he was impervious to it - and my teeth biting into his hand were just a minor annoyance as he pulled me to a dark corner and shoved me there, behind a crate.

"You're a fierce little bird, aren't you?"

His voice was like the deep rumble of a distant thunder. I could see just a faint outline of him, just see the glint of his blackened armor in what little light flickered in from the window - the fire outside was still going strong. I lay there, the skin of my back now pressing against the cold, humid wall as I crawled up against it, frightened. Vico cut an imposing figure - tall, armored, his face not quite visible for the exception of a hint of a stubble against the faint outline of his jaw.

"Who are you?"

My voice only came out a mouse's squeak a moment before the snake struck.

And in that moment, Vico felt like the snake, closing in in front of me, devious and full of poison. Well, it turned out I could be quite good at gauging first impressions. The instincts of a dying little Princess are more refined than you'd think, you see.

He cocked his head, as if surprised of hearing me speak.

"It doesn't matter who I am. The Dhorn have overrun the castle. They've slaughtered almost everyone."

His voice was deathly deadpan. It was almost as if he was telling me what he'd had for breakfast, by the way he spoke.

But I died a little more with each syllable. He was staring at me, his shadowed face unreadable.

"They've... slaughtered everyone?"

The word hung heavy on my lips. I repeated it, in disbelief.

"The King is dead, as well. Wasn't fast enough to get to him, first."

At that point, there was very little of me left alive - but again I died a little more, feeling my life as it shattered all around me.

Shira, dead.

Father, dead.

Mother, too.

The servants, the guards -- I'd seen their bodies littering the place as I'd bolted off, too high on adrenaline to stop and consider what I was seeing.

I wished I could have denied his words, so cold and lifeless and impassionate, even as they destroyed what was left of me. I wished I could have lived in the illusion that perhaps he was lying, that this was a very bad dream, that the next morning I would wake with my Mother's arms tight around me.

"The King... is dead?" 

I repeated, disbelieving. But as I did, reality sank in a little more, cold chills crawling on my chest, my heart pouding from my attempted escape and yet hurting from something else entirely. I tried breathing, but it was almost as if my lungs wouldn't work, it was as if something was crushing up my bones. But there was nothing on my chest, except the heavy weight of loss. Tears began rolling down my cheeks on their own accord - the last, wailing cries of a dying girl.

He just kept staring at me, cold and uninterested.

"They stormed the kitchens first. Did you know there was a girl Shanna, working right there in the kitchens? She had big, brown eyes you could drown in. She wanted me to show her the sea, one day."

I stared back. You see, there's something paralyzing about a loss like that. I had never known any Shanna. I couldn't give less of a fuck about any Shanna. All I could think of was my Father's smile as I sat on his lap as a child, and my Mother's smell - roses and lotus - as she hugged me to her chest to comfort me. Shanna could have died a thousand times over if it meant having my parents back.

But I didn't say any of that. I just stared back at him, tears wetting my face, barely blinking. If earlier I'd started dying bit by bit, now it was like the last of my life was bleeding out, fast, leaving me a cold, empty husk of myself. He snarled at me.

"Nothing to say to that?" His aggressive tone, coming out of nowhere, almost snapped me out of it. "I... I..."

It took him just one stride to close in on me, as he reached out with his hand and grabbed the front of my dress, forcing me to stand up. He was still taller than me - and closer now, close enough that I could smell the alcohol in his breath and see his teeth as he bared them at me.

"Tell me your name, little bird. Tell me who you are."

My heart beat fast in my chest - and in that moment, I truly felt like a caged bird.

"Lyanna. Lyanna Blackthorn of Betancuria", I gasped out. "Let me go! Please!"

I don't know why he wanted to hear me say it. Perhaps it was the satisfaction of me admitting it aloud. Perhaps it was just the thrill of the hunt. My hands fumbled against his chest, feeling plate armor against my skin, trying to push him off and yet, he came closer still.

"A dark day for both of us, then." I felt the smirk in his voice. His breath caressed the shell of my ear now. "You're not as pretty as Shanna, little princess. But pretty enough."

It came on instinct. I bared my teeth right back at his face, anger and outrage momentarily overshadowing my grief, and I snarled at him, "Let me go, you son of a whore! Don't you fucking dare!"

That was the first time I ever swore. Sometimes, I think of that moment as the first breath of a new life as the old one bled right out.

"Such a dirty little mouth for a princess."

He shoved his hand on my face again and again I bit him, locking my jaw as tightly as I could against whatever meat I'd grabbed, again making him bleed, but again he didn't even flinch. His other hand crawled on my skirt, grabbed it, pulled it up -- Blood flooded my tongue as my teeth shredded off the limb of skin I'd bitten. For a split moment, he recoiled, taken by surprise - and frankly, I surprised myself as well. For a second I was free, and it was enough for me to spit out more venom.

"Don't you dare touching me, you fucking pig, I'll have your hea--"

He shut me up again. This time he had enough sense to gag me up with a piece of cloth - very convenient find for him, considering we were in a laundry room.

"No, you won't." His tone was laced with anger, along with an undertone of something else I couldn't quite identify. Grief, perhaps.

His lips touched my throat, for just a moment, and I felt the hint of teeth. Like he somehow meant to enjoy it. Me, I wanted to retch whatever was left of my last meal. Small miracle I hadn't done so earlier. And I wanted to tear his eyes out with my nails-- but he pressed up against me, caging me against the wall as his knee pushed against my skirt, making it ride up to my thighs. The hand crawling up my skirt grabbed my wrist, while the other reached out behind him -- and now a dagger was pressed up against my throat. It's a peculiar feeling, having the wrong end of a sharp blade tight on your skin, for all the wrong reasons.

It cut into me, and it burned, it burned so much that I couldn't even breathe, and yet I wanted to scream and tear at the man who was doing this to me-- But all I could do was bite into the cloth, unable to move.

"Do as I say, or I'll slit your pretty white throat."

I hated him. I hated him with a burning, fiery passion, as he tore my skirt out of the way and lowered himself on me. His weight made me want to vomit and his breath reeked of alcohol, and the burning pain of the knife's bite mingled with a pain coming from a different kind of bite, more personal, even more disgusting, and it felt like a snake had found its way in my gut and was wriggling at its heart content, devouring me from the inside out.

Truth be told, the loss of virginity did not bother me that much, not by itself. It didn't take me too long to realize that a maidenhead was but yet another valuable good to trade for this world's males - it didn't matter if they were Dhorn or Betancurian or whatever else in between. But I'd never had the chance to offer it in the first place.

In my daydreams, I'd offered it to my Dhornish prince. Roguish and handsome as he was, he was also a gentleman, and it would only ever happen the night after our marriage. He would be sweet, and thoughtful. I'd never once have to do like some of my handmaidens had suggested a lifetime ago - to lie on my back and wait for him to finish his business. How wrong I was. About that, and about the Dhorn.

Just as I thought that, merciful darkness closed in on me - for once, the dark did not frighten me. It came as an old friend, welcomed and yearned for, as I finally passed out.

I woke up a day and a half later, or so I was told. Vico had carried me to safety, after he was done with me, instead of leaving me to die on that floor.

I wish he'd done just that. I wish he hadn't. I wish I could take back what was stolen from me.

That was my gift for my sixteenth birthday: my loved ones bled out on cold stone, my life destroyed and turned upside down, and Vico. I never asked for his name. I was told, by one who'd decided to fancy himself my adoptive father, for no reason other than the fact he took me under his wing. True enough, Master Nathan had sheltered me from the storm. But as the storm raged outside, another raged within.

Life fucks us all, they say. But now I'm the one holding the reins.


	2. A new Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Princess Blackthorn is no longer a princess.

Months slipped by. I kept going on and on, merely out of habit - what would you do if your life was destroyed so thoroughly, so suddenly, as mine was? In the span of a day, I'd lost my family, my virginity and my life as I'd known it. Maybe it helped that I'd had something to do.

\----------- 

Vico was part of an association of thieves - the Family, if you will. I always found the name somewhat ironic: Master Nathan didn't fancy himself a father for anyone but myself, and there were no mothers around. The Family was perhaps built on one single purpose: to allow thieves and murderers to belong and put their talents to use for the so-called greater good.  
Master Nathan's greater good - it's not easy to describe. He was aloof, rarely showed any affection, and being around him always felt like he was a notch or two higher than you were. It wasn't demeaning, but staying in the same room as he was could be a stressful endeavour - I was always watching myself, even more than I did when I was still a Princess.  
Yet, as a dead girl, I couldn't help but latch onto that. He was cold, but he felt unshakeable. He was a pillar of strength and endurance, a shelter against the wailing storm that was my life. He'd offered me protection, in exchange of simple, honest work. A job as a kitchen girl, never seeing a breath of the life outside - locked in there just as I was locked in the castle. A less than glamorous cage compared to the one I was used to, but a cage nonetheless.

I still remember the day I met him.  
When I first woke up after my death, I was sixteen years and a day and a half old, staring up at a ceiling I'd never seen before, in a bed that was nothing like my own. The smell of roasted meat drifted in my nose and a gentle lithany of crackling fire filled my ears.  
It took me several moments to process. I blinked, over and over, trying to make sense of what I was seeing - why wasn't I in my soft feather bed, back in the castle? Why were the servants roasting meat in my fireplace, of all places? Then it all came rushing back.  
Fire. Screams. The dead. Running. Vico.  
Panic instantly seized me, my body acting on its own accord. I bolted off the bed, onto the floor, and I remember the feeling of my bare feet scraping against rough wood, the prickle of splinters penetrating my skin.

  
It should've been painful. But it wasn't.  
Living hurt more.

  
I remember a big woman staring at me. I only got a fleeting impression of her, of her eyes, warm and hazel, as she laid down the potato she was peeling and reached out to me. But I saw the glint of the peeler first, and my panic only heightened.  
"Don't touch me!", I'd shrieked, before she could even speak.  
I all but pounced on her. Fear does things to the human body, you see. I was just a frail little Princess, who'd never wielded a weapon or thrown a punch in her short life - and yet I knocked the woman off her chair, onto the ground, only to bolt off again a moment later. It's a small miracle I did not attempt to murder her with her own peeler - as far as my panic-hazed mind was concerned, it was a knife, and she might as well been threatening me with it.

  
She was lucky I didn't have murder in my system just yet.

  
It was actually Master Nathan who unwittingly stopped me from escaping - by pure coincidence, too. He later told me he was just coming in to check on Chella and myself - and then he made to cross the kitchen's doorstep just as I was all but bolting out of the room. According to him, I was a sight to behold: naked, small and bloodied, hair unmade and wildly whipping about my skull, eyes so wide he'd thought they would pop out of my eyelids.  
I was blinded, terrified, and at that point, my skin was crawling for it. I still felt the soreness of my lower lips, still had the impression of the snake in my gut -- and I bumped straight into a man I didn't know.

  
I snarled like an animal, and barely felt the tears as they started streaming down my face, hot and liquid.  
My throat closed up, and words came out of my mouth of their own accord.

  
"Get off me you filthy pig!"

  
I don't know what he thought of me, at the time. As I said earlier, Master Nathan wasn't exactly open with the people around me, if anything, his attitude could be described as unfriendly and introverted. But I doubt he'd expected the Princess he'd just plucked off her cage to call him a filthy pig.  
And he didn't move at all. He didn't step towards me, nor did he back off - and perhaps that's what frightened my panicked self most of all. I remember just bolting off the farthest corner, cowering against what I would later identify as a cupboard, watching this unfamiliar man as he blocked my only exit.  
Master Nathan was by no means scary, in appearance. If anything, he gave off a slightly fatherly vibe, with his grey-streaked beard and his slicked back hair, even though it was constantly offset by his expression, stern and firm as it was. Bumping into him had been like bumping right into a wall - and at that moment, I feared and hated him for it.

We stared at each other for a few, infinitely long seconds. He was firm, unmoveable, a wall between me and my salvation. It wasn't long until I went back to screaming.

  
"Don't touch me!", I shrieked out. "Pig! Fucker! I hope you die!"

  
Strong words to use for someone I've never met, don't you think? At the time, it didn't matter. At the time, it felt like it was a good idea. At the time, he was predator, and I was prey.  
Long hours passed. He never moved, and I never stopped cowering. I was told that Master Nathan had later ordered that no one came into the kitchen - save Chella and himself, so Chella had to shoulder most of the kitchen work because of me. Not that it was an issue: she was the kitchen's indiscussed queen, wielding her wooden spoon like a scepter, and no one except the Master himself could tell her what to do what she was in her own domain.

  
I don't know if she ever resented me for it. A whole day of kitchen work, all for herself to take on, because of a wild animal in the guise of a girl cowering in a corner.  
It took more and more hours for me to calm down. At some point, it was only by sheer force of will that I kept looking at this unfamiliar man. And he kept looking right back, as Chella moved on about, no longer a threat in my eyes now that there was a bigger one on the horizon.  
It's incredible what panic allows you do to. I never would've had the strength to lay there unmoving if it wasn't for that. But eventually, tiredness caught up to me. As my eyelids started fluttering down - it was then that Master Nathan attempted taking a step forward.

  
Instantly, I was alert and screaming all over again.

  
To this day, I still don't think I've ever used such a colorful collection of swears to describe someone, not even in my own thoughts. That includes Vico and every other fucker I came across from that day on - and believe me, the number is nothing to scoff at.  
Eventually, I calmed down. Not because I'd recognized Master Nathan as friendly, oh no. At some point, I was so tired I no longer gave a fuck, and allowed myself to slump up against that damned cupboard - so, after all of that time, he was finally allowed to take steps in my general direction.  
I remember my own disinterest as I watched him approach, heavy lidded. I didn't care enough. He could cut me up and have the other woman roast me on the fireplace, or spread in the streets for the sailors and the commoners to rape, for all I cared - everyone I knew was dead, anyway. My hopes, my dreams, my life crushed to splinter by the cold wheel of fate - what did I care if this life ended?  
What did I care if they'd rape me again?  
But instead of doing what I expected him to do, Master Nathan just gathered up my limp body from the ground and carried me to the bed I was in. And there, he did not touch me again - he just tucked me in, without saying anything. Not a word escaped his lips that day. I fell asleep like that, a spark of warmth in my chest.

I spent two days in bed after that ordeal. Chella came to my bedside whenever she had time to spare - and she always tried talking to me.  
I never listened.  
Her gentle voice irritated me immensely.  
No one had any right to speak to me like that. Like I was a thing so easily broken, a thing that needed coddling and care to come back to life.  
I was broken already. And no amount of care from a woman who'd decided to fancy herself my makeshift mother would change that.

Sometimes, though, I listened.  
However much I wanted to tune out all of Chella's gentle coddling, part of me knew I had to listen. I'd always enjoyed listening - not only to music, but to people as well. Mother had always said I'd had a knack for it, and she would hug me and kiss my forehead, saying that one day, this knack of mine could've made the difference.  
But that knack of mine had made no difference when the Dhorn attacked our castle, or when Vico had me cornered in that musty laundry room.  
It did when I stopped tuning out Chella.  
In fact, she told me a great many deal of things. Most of them didn't need her to utter a single word - like the telltale way her eyes would flicker towards me, or the slight curl of her lips as she hummed while she was putting aside a portion of warm, freshly made soup for me.  
Or her softly whispered words as she bid me goodnight and kissed my brow when she thought no one was looking.  
For whatever reason, her coddling went beyond simple necessity and bled right onto wholehearted care. I didn't understand, at the time. It took me a while to process what I was seeing - in time, it'd all make sense.  
Yet, from the way she spoke - the respectful way she'd address me, and the downwards flicker of her eyes as I looked at her - I caught the most important truth of all. She knew who I was, even though she tried hard not to show it.

The days I spent in bed, mulling and looking at the ceiling, allowed me to realize another truth still. Even though Father and Mother were dead - and the thought itself had me shuddering - the blood running through my veins was the same as theirs.  
That could only mean one thing - I was no longer a Princess, but a Queen. A Queen whose kingdom had been most likely seized in an act of treason.  
By none other of my Father's allies.  
The same allies who were probably establishing their rule as I lay in bed at the mercy of people I didn't know - people who could sell me in a heartbeat.  
So I wasn't really much of a Queen at all, just a girl with a target big enough to fit a castle drawn on her back.

My Dhorn prince hadn't left my dreams just yet. I dreamed of him smiling - his teeth as gloriously white as ever. I launched myself into his arms, even as a part of me screamed in warning.  
I felt my throat part as he slit it with his jeweled sword, my blood spilling out in rhythmic gushes, following the beat of my heart.  
He was still smiling as I woke up with a scream.

A few days later, I had recovered enough to be able to stand up from the bed, and I was even dressed - some old, muslin kitchen clothes, baggy and rough against my skin. It was Chella who gave them to me. The poor woman even smiled as she finally managed to present herself to me, murmuring a few words on how it must've been hard for me, and how she didn't blame at all for what I'd done to her.  
I didn't care to hear any of it.  
The same day, I officially met Master Nathan as well. Dressed up in those baggy old clothes, Chella accompanied me upstairs - and if it wasn't for her, I would've bolted again at the sight of two unfamiliar men dressed in black armor, just on top of the stairs. Sam and Lucas, I think their names were - I didn't learn until later.  
But we went on - one of them even smiled at me, warm and kind.  
In his smile I only saw the gaping maws of death.

Master Nathan didn't smile, though. I was grateful to him for that. I didn't need anyone smiling at me, I didn't want anyone smiling at me. No one had the right to smile at me, after what I'd gone through.  
I stood in front of him, unmoving, my face rigid. I had had brief flashes of our previous encounter - the survivor in me was still very much wary of this unknown man. But the rest of myself remembered the way he'd tucked me into that bed after all I'd said to him, and the warmth the action had sparked in my chest came back as I saw his face and took in the slight wrinkles on the sides of his mouth.  
But not enough to make me smile. Not enough to make me bow.

  
So I didn't say anything. And finally, finally - he spoke first.

  
"Lyanna Blackthorn."

  
The sound of my full name on his lips had me narrowing my eyes.  
  
"Are you going to sell me to the Dhorn pigs, or not?"

  
His left eyebrow twitched - just a fraction.

  
"No. I'd like to offer you my protection, Lyanna."

  
I bristled slightly. No one was allowed to call me by my first name like that, except family. And he wasn't. My family was dead and rotting below cold, hard ground.

  
"_Lady_ Lyanna."

  
My voice dripped venom as I corrected him. His eyes - discolored grey - narrowed to two thin slits.

  
"Lyanna."

  
I sucked in a breath.

  
"My protection has only one price. In exchange for it, you'll work in the kitchens - in fact, I'm convinced it'll do you some good to do some honest work."

  
"I don't want it."

  
The words had left my mouth before I could stop them.  
Did I want protection? Did I _not_ want it? I didn't know. I just knew pain and grief and rage - the fact I _needed_ that protection didn't matter to me. Nothing matters when your heart is dead and rotting below cold, hard ground along with your family.

  
"Come again?"

  
His tone reeked of challenge.

  
"I don't want protection from a man I don't know. "

  
"Does it matter to you?"

  
"Yes."

  
He narrowed his eyes at me. Then bobbed his head towards me, in greeting.

  
"I am Nathan Geigers. You may call me Master Nathan."

  
I waited a moment longer before bobbing my head right back.

\-----------

The following months weren't easy for me. It might sound stupid - but a Princess isn't used to manual labor, and that's exactly what kitchen work entailed. As a Princess, I'd learned geography, history, customs, delicate needlework and just a slight bit of herbology.  
A kitchen girl didn't need any of that.  
Now I was the lowest of the low, serving Chella as if she was my queen, while by all rights - I knew it was the opposite. I scraped floors and cleaned utensils, and I never actually cooked anything. Such privilege belonged to Chella and her closest collaborators, Wally and Denny.

  
It wasn't even that kitchen work was bad. In a way, it was good for me - in this, Master Nathan had proven to be right. Having my hands busy prevented me from thinking too much on what had happened to me, and what I was going to do. And whenever I dropped down on the bed, I was tired enough to drift in almost dreamless sleep almost every time.  
Every other time, I'd just wake up with my breathing ragged as if I'd just run a marathon, and I would lash out at anyone unfortunate enough to be approaching my bed. I was surprisingly vicious, too. One time, it was Trissa who'd drawn the short straw - or so it semed. Truth is, I couldn't stand the girl.  
Petty as she was, she'd begun verbally harrassing me constantly: she would call me a foul mouthed slut almost every day of my life in the kitchens, and all because of a guy - Caron. But I'll get to him later.

  
At first, I'd had no idea on how to handle a situation like that. Princesses don't have to suffer fools insulting them right in front of their face - they'd have them executed in the blink of an eye.  
But I was no longer a Princess, and so my methods could no longer be quite so orthodox. As I said, Trissa had drawn the short straw, except that she didn't draw any straw at all. I knew that my own fits were terrible and uncontrollable - I'd once maimed poor Walter, tearing part of his earlobe off - and that day, I'd known at what time Trissa was going to come to bed.  
I just lay in wait in my bed, shifting, pretending to mumble to myself - symptoms I'd been told were associated to my nightmare fits. I didn't need a real fit to desire hurting Trissa, and I'd had the perfect alibi: that of a broken, violent sixteen year old girl, who couldn't quite control her fits of violence whenever she had bad dreams. She'd once torn Wally's earlobe right off, even though the man had been nothing but kind to her in her waking hours.

  
I cracked a few of her ribs. Broke a wrist. Tore off a patch of her hair.  
It never quite grew back to be the same.

  
And needless to say, she didn't bother me again - rather, she looked at me with a strange mixture of fear and spite, but one I could tolerate.

  
And the crux of her problems, Caron - he'd started fucking her anyway, so why bother fighting for a prize she'd already won? They fucked anywhere. On Trissa's bed. On the kitchen table when no one was around. Behind the crates as people passed by, pretending not to hear a thing.

  
Caron himself was a lanky boy, all limbs and tendon after his recent growth spurt. He'd had dirty blonde hair, mischievous blue eyes, and a ladykiller smile. I was told about the ladykiller part, by the way. I have no idea why Trissa was so hung up on hating me for my flimsy friendship with Caron, but he was never in any danger of losing him to me.

  
He was, first and foremost, a friend.  
Unlike Shira, he wore his heart on a sleeve and he was never afraid of saying anything inappropriate in front of me. He would sneak his fingers on my thighs and then pretend he hadn't done that - that is, until my patience ran dry and I broke his wrist and several of his fingers. From there on, he never did anything of the sort again.  
He didn't know who I was, but he was sweet enough to be considerate of my past. There was a shroud of mystery surrounding that part of me, all the time - nobody quite knew what had happened to me, and I myself wasn't much inclined to traipse around telling everyone my full name.

  
Nevertheless, I was sure that at least two people knew what had happened to me. Master Nathan obviously knew who I was - and as it turned out, he was also Vico's employer, which meant, by extension, that he was supposedly aware of his character. Sometimes I wondered if it was Master Nathan who'd ordered him to do what he did with me. Spoil the Princess, bring her back here as a prize. Maybe one day she'll be valuable enough to sell to the highest bidder.

  
Chella, too. I don't know if she knew about Vico, specifically, but I was certain she had an idea of what had happened to me - her stares, full of pity as they were, eventually gave her away.

  
It helped that those months flew by and Vico never showed his face around the kitchen. I'd never actually seen his facial features, yet I was sure that something deep and primal inside of me would've recognized him anywhere, and thrown me into a fit of panic, and I would've ended up screaming and crying in a darkened corner for everyone in the kitchen to see.  
Caron, on the other hand, was considerate enough not to ask. He'd smile - and a dimple would pop up in his right cheek whenever he did that - and then ask me if I felt like learning something new. It was him who taught me how to use my fingers, and not the way you'd think.

  
Under his tutelage, sneaking and pickpocketing became sort of a hobby of mine.

  
At first, it was a game. He'd teach me something new "to pass the time", then challenge me to steal something specific - like Chella's wooden spoon, or an apple from a bowl right in front of everyone. There was no pressure involved. No desperate need to survive. Caron had managed to create an interesting enough game for me to get lost in - and it wasn't long until I got better at it.  
Soon, I no longer needed Caron's prompt to steal.  
It was just a matter of time before I got my hands on the windows' keys.

It didn't go as well as I'd planned - not by a long shot. My general idea had been to steal the keys, go outside, and possibly find somewhere else to be.  
It's not that I hated Chella, or Caron, or Master Nathan. I just wanted to stay as far away as possible from one of my rapist's favorite haunts - I planned to steal enough money to buy myself an apartment, or perhaps just straight up hightail it to Sargoza.  
It didn't matter, as the first thing I did as a newly freed kitchen girl was slip on the roof tiles and fall right down onto the street.  
I was lucky. The Bear Pit's second story wasn't that high, its roof inclined to favor rain's discharge - we were in Betancuria, and rain was Betancuria's favorite weather.  
That said, I could've still broken a few bones - but I didn't take a bad landing, as slipping somehow managed to get me rolling. And rolling takes some momentum off the fall - but I still ended up right on my ass in the middle of a rainy street, only cockroaches as witnesses.  
After that, I just came back inside - bruises already starting to form, and myself regretting my impulse decision to try and escape.

\-----------

"I just wanted to get some air", I'd lied.

  
Master Nathan had frowned at me, unhappy.

  
"Lyanna."

  
The way he said my name always threw me off balance - it was like he was scolding a daughter, except I was no daughter of his.

  
"It's only for your own safety that we keep you locked inside."

  
I frowned right back at him.

  
"I don't want to be your prisoner. Or anyone else's."

  
His frown deepened - his mouth now a thin line of displeasure, barely visible beneath all of his beard.

  
"No one wants you to be a prisoner, Lyanna. But the world outside won't be as kind to you as we are."

  
"I know that. Didn't stop me from trying, though."

  
Looking back on it, I really had no shame whatsoever. The first and foremost thought in my head - it was freedom. Survival. Life. I did not care about the Family, at the time, nor did I care about working in the kitchen, even if the work itself had been good for me.

  
"There's only one possible solution, then."

  
I looked back at Master Nathan's sour face, my eyes widening just a fraction. I was trying so hard not to show anything - surprise, disappointment, loathing... _hope_. I hated that part of me was still daring to be hopeful. Master Nathan could've sold me in a heartbeat. It was something I wouldn't allow myself to forget.

  
"Kitchen work no longer suits you. I've been told that Caron has taught you some useful tricks, and I'd like you to put them to good use."

  
He cocked his head.

  
"I'd like you to work for me, in a different fashion. But first, you need to be taught."

Well, that wasn't what I'd expected to hear. Hope swelled in my chest, slow and tentative, as if hesitating to take root. I squashed it right in its bud. 

_Nothing is as good as it seems_, a voice in my mind whispered.

  
"Work for you... _how_? I'm not going to allow you to pimp me on the streets."

  
Really, it was amazing what sort of venom I could spit at a man like that, who'd never shown be anything but kindness.

  
"Nothing of the sort, young lady. You may have noticed that I have a little activity, on the side."

  
I narrowed my eyes at him, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

  
"I noticed."

  
It was hard not to, really. It's not like I didn't know that Nathan had nothing to do with brothels and whores, but part of me wanted to spite him for being my makeshift jailor. But the men and women coming and going all the time, all dressed in black, were hard not to notice.

  
"Good. For this reason, I've arranged seven lessons for you."

  
He handed me a note. I read the first line, my eyes flitting across the page. Master Nathan's writing was clean and precise, just like he was.

_Lesson One: Chella, disguising._

I looked at him again, doubtful.

  
"Disguising? Why?"

  
He raised his eyebrow. _Just do as I tell you, girl_. That's what Nathan's raised brow always meant to me.

  
"Fine."

  
I pocketed the note, sneering to myself.

  
"I'll see you when I'm done, then."

  
He nodded, once, rigidly, dismissing me.

\-----------

Later on, I read the full note. Each lesson, except the first and the fourth, contained a name, a place and what it was going to be about.

_Lesson One: Chella, disguising._  
_Lesson Two: Hattori, Tea House, fighting._  
_Lesson Three: Master Drago, Southern Betancuria's warehouse, stealth._  
_Lesson Four: Mistress Joanna, Riverside 4._  
_Lesson Five: Yance, marketplace, pickpocketing._  
_Lesson Six: Alfons, sewer hideout, locks and traps._  
_Lesson Seven: Kelten, A Thousand Steps Inn, trapmaking._

Very little of that note rang any bell. I'd never known any Yance, any Alfons, and I had no idea there was a hideout in the sewers - and it was disgusting to think that I'd have to go under there, amidst the dirt, the human waste and the slime, traipsing around and looking for someone I didn't know.

  
I sighed. One step at a time, I told myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be reformatting this chapter. Sometime.


	3. Lesson One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Princess Blackthorn learns the basics of disguising.

I started with the most familiar name. It helped that I knew exactly who Chella was. That it was labeled "Lesson One" was a further hint that that was were I was supposed to start - so there I went. So there I went, back into the kitchen again.

I caught her as she was cooking up a stew. As I approached, she turned and saw me. Her lips instantly curled into a happy, toothy smile, and immediately she left was she was doing to wrap me into a warm hug.

"See, it wasn't that bad", she cooed at me.

It was her who'd let me know that Master Nathan wanted to speak to me - and both of us had assumed that there was some punishment underway. It had helped that she'd waved around her spoon, threatening to spank Master Nathan if he dared lay a single finger on me.

But her _hugs_. Her hugs were bearlike, suffocating, and definitely too much for me. Whenever she hugged me, I just wanted to bolt and run off, freeing myself from that constriction - the memory of close contact with another human body was still very much unpleasant to me.

"L-let me go, Chella", I begged her.

She did so instantly, but then she grabbed my cheeks, still smiling widely.

"So? What did Master Nathan tell you?"

I swear, she was more excited about my lessons than I was. Not that I was enthusiastic in any way.

"He didn't spank me, for starters", I answered, my cheeks putty in her hands as they started to warm - I don't know if it was because of the fire, or because of a blush for the embarassment of being treated like a little kid.

At least Trissa was nowhere to be seen.

Chella's smile only widened still.

"And?"

"And I've been told you've got a lesson for me. Disguising?"

Those were, apparently, the magic words. She let me go with a hearty laugh.

"Yes, Lyanna. I'll be your teacher!"

I swear, she was always so damn enthusiastic about everything. She didn't even take the time to make herself sound the least bit... well, teacher-like. Puffed up chest, pretentious tone of voice, any characteristic that used to belong to my tutors.

My very much _dead_ tutors.

"Disguising is a useful tool to have, child."

Her voice was light as she started her explanation - Wally and Denny had found somewhere else to be, and everyone else was too busy around us to even listen.

"You could disguise yourself as a beautiful noble, with jewels in your hair and lips painted red, and everyone in the room would be too busy ogling to do much of anything else."

Her smile was warm and kind.

"But the point of the disguise is not to be recognizable at all. Beauty can be a tool, but beauty is looked at. On the other hand, ugliness does the opposite: we have a natural instict to avoid whatever looks ugly and smells bad."

Chella looked at me expectantly now. I just nodded - fortunately, the motion was enough to satisfy her.

"There's also the possibility of disguising yourself as a boy, but sadly, I don't think it'll work out for you."

She pointed at my chest.

Granted, kitchen girl clothes weren't doing much in terms of propriety. The cleavage was too deep for my tastes, the corset underneath pushing my chest up and making it look bigger still; and the skirt was short, made like that to ease manual labor. I still wonder why my clothes didn't have pants instead of a skirt - the latter just made it far easier for Caron to stick his fingers on my thighs whenever he fancied.

I hated that. I hated that most men all but swooned in my general direction. I didn't want to make men swoon, I just wanted them to stay as far away from me as possible.

As soon as Chella mentioned my cleavage, I pouted and covered it.

"Don't look at my chest, Chella."

She shrugged.

"There's nothing wrong with it. Maybe binding it would work, for a time, as long as anyone doesn't accidentally touch it."

It was my turn to shrug. If I disguised as a boy and someone accidentally palmed my chest - my first and foremost worry wouldn't be to prevent the discovery from happening. It would be "how to get away with murder".

"So, for this lesson, I'd like you to disguise yourself as a beggar. You can either find a beggar willing to lend you his clothes, or have them made by Gaston the tailor... Just take care in the streets outside, child. The sailors in Southern Betancuria don't take a no for an answer, if you get my meaning."

It was funny that she was the one who shuddered as she said those words. Not as funny as her suggesting me to get especially tailored silk rags.

I knew Gaston - not personally, but I knew of his reputation well enough. He had personally tailored some of my gowns, and he had a taste for rich, fanciful clothings only fit for ladies of the highest caste.

Who the hell was I supposed to fool with that? Did Chella not have an ounce of common sense outside of her kitchen, after all?

I didn't bother to hide my frown.

"You want me to go ask Gaston, of all people, to tailor beggar clothes for me."

She frowned right back at me.

"I know what I've said, child. Off you go."

And she turned, abruptly ending the conversation with a swish of her spoon as she went back to stirring her stew.

I stared at her back for a few seconds longer, as she started humming contentedly to herself - obviously expecting me to shove off and be done with it.

"Fine."

I turned my back and got out of the kitchen - onto a corridor with two sets of stairs, one going up, to Master Nathan's quarters, and the other... down. Down, in The Bear Pit's main room, where guests were, where they drank and ate to their hearts' content.

It could've been a tavern for sailors from all I knew. I had never stepped down those stairs - and the only time I'd seen a breath of air had been the night before. It was late enough that there were only few, cranky guests as I passed by, none of them particularly memorable.

Even after these two long years, I still remember what it felt like to be allowed free for the first time in many months, what it felt like to take the first step down those stairs and not be halted by one of Nathan's guards. What it felt like to see for myself what The Bear Pit was all about, and discover that it wasn't the sailor watering hole I half expected - but a tavern for commoners.

Smiling maids served men I'd probably seen many times in my life - but always from a distance, so far away, as they cheered for my parents.

It was hard to reconcile the memories of all these people calling my Father's name with the people I was seeing now, drinking and cheering and trying to cop a feel from the maids as my Father lay dead below the ground.

  
Out of The Bear Pit and onto the street, I felt much better. The air was a little damp, which wasn't surprising, but really - it was the first breath of open air I'd been allowed to take in months. I'd always been a bird in a cage, and those first step I took outside felt like spreading whatever wings I had left for the very first time.

Mind you - those wings had always felt cramped, constricted, and I didn't know how to use them, in the beginning. So of course, I did the most sensible thing: I started walking down the first road I saw.

But learning the kingdom's exact layout had never been required of me. I realized, later on, that as a Princess I'd never been meant to be anything more than a glorified pet, who would one day be married off to someone who would be all too happy to relieve my Father's shoulders of his crown. My Mother, though, was never the glorified pet I was. She'd proven herself, time and time again, on the battlefield - something that set her miles apart from every other noblewoman in Betancuria.

Looking back, I know she just wanted to keep me safe, in her own way. A caged bird, coddled and spoiled, is as safe as a bird can be. Until everything around it goes up in flames, that is.

So I walked. And walked. Then walked some more.

Where do you think I ended up?

Why, I meant to go visit Southern Betancuria - not an unknown route, per se. So of course I wound up somewhere amidst the shops of Northen Betancuria. I didn't notice until I saw the sign - "Gaston, Tailor".

Ugh.

_[There is a hastily scribbled note on the side of the page. "Don't you even dare laughing at me, Simon."]_

So I turned on my heels, and finally, I saw the faint outline of The Isle of Men - Betancuria's fanciest quarters, if you will, built on the only island of the White River. I don't even know who gave it that name. The White River is as murky and brown as as a river can be.

But nevertheless, there was a certain aura of mistique attributed to whoever lived on that island - and it was called The Isle of Men for a reason. Betancuria's system had always been very much patriarchal and patrilinear. And there lived the very top specimens of Betancuria's male nobility, along with their trophy wives, dolled up daughters and squire sons.

Of course, they were all a bunch of assholes.

I'd met most of them when I was young - Lord Fernandet, for example. From the way courtiers talked about him, you'd think he was a strapping, gentlemanly young man of noble blood and even nobler soul.

I'll give you a free tip: he was neither young, nor strapping, nor a gentleman. And his soul was as far from noble as they came. I think he was actually the first guy with courage enough to make his untoward interest for me well known.

Nevertheless, Father had him whipped twenty times for his arrogance.

The reason? He'd made up a drunken story about how he'd bedded the Princess, and how much of a slut she was beneath her dutiful exterior, and how he'd gotten away with snatching her virginity with no consequence.

That was one very much deserved whipping, if you ask me. He never did anything of the sort again, and his back simply never went back to what it used to be.

So the rumours about my impurity were nipped right on the bud.

And I spent my nights hoping that Father would have me marry the Dhorn prince from my fantasy instead of someone like Lord Fernandet.

It's funny that my fantasies died together with Lord Fernandet.

I heard, later on, that as I broke my back in The Bear Pit's kitchen the Dhorn had amused themselves by trying to purge the city of every Blackthorn symphatizer they could get their hands on. He was one of the first to go.

Loyal to the very end, whips or not.

  
The walk up to Betancuria's docks, on the other side of the White River, wasn't as uneventful as I'd hoped it would be.

A group of people had gathered up to the shore, all whispering, some women with hands on their mouths, like they'd seen something terrible. But first, I saw the red. The red of the Dhorn guard's coat, soggy and dirty, as he lay on the ground. The same coat of his companions, as they gathered up around him, frowning.

His face was bloated, his eyes white, turned up in his skull, unseeing.

Someone had drowned the man.

The sight of a dead person, for the first time in many months, did not stir what I'd expected to feel within me. I was supposed to feel pity. Disgust. Anything that would be associated with a bloated, smelling corpse of a drowning man.

But to me, he was neither a person, nor a man.

He was a Dhorn.

And the sight of him dead on the ground stirred a part of me I hadn't been completely aware of, up until that moment. Of course, I hated the Dhorn. Of course, I wanted revenge. But I'd never put it into a clear thought, and that part of me that felt horribly bad whenever I saw one of the castle's cats pounce on a mouse - when I looked at that corpse, it simply wasn't there.

I didn't feel sorry, or sad, or disgusted.

I felt elated.

Euphoric, even.

As I looked at the corpse's unseeing eyes, I was only too glad that he was gone.

  
One less to worry about.

  
Eventually, I got to my destination. As I saw the first beggar - lying just behind a wooden crate, his cheeks gaunt and his eyes hollow - I just walked right up to him without a thought in the world, still feeling the high from earlier.

"Give me your clothes."

It wasn't a request. It was just a straight up order.

What can I say, the months I'd spent in the kitchen hadn't quite been enough to get all of that highborn arrogance out of my system just yet.

And frankly, I just wanted to get this done with - the fact that he smelled badly enough to make me want to throw up was very much contributing to my desire to hurry it up.

He looked right back at me, confused and scared at first - and then his expression morphed into one of amusement.

"Well, that's a new one. You a hooker, girl?"

I flushed in outrage.

"How dare you. You're just a dirty beggar on the str-"

"And you're a girl, right in this street."

He then pointed at a shop right in front of us - one with too-evident heart drawn all over its sign. "Wildcat Brothel", it read. No sounds, no lights and a barred door; it was clearly closed.

"Doesn't mean I have to be a hooker."

"Well, then my clothes don't mean I'm a beggar", he shot back. "Now shove off, unless you want to show me that rack."

My back went ramrod straight at that - I think I even started seeing red. That's how outraged I was. Little did I know that the people I'd encounter later in my life would be even worse than that.

"Just give me your clothes."

"Or what?", he sneered.

"Or I'll slit your throat."

Thinking back on it, there was no way a sixteen year old girl fresh out from two very sheltered places could have intimidated a beggar into giving her his clothes. But the part of me that had delighted in the Dhorn's death - it was still very much awake. It stirred as I spat out my threat. It blinked through my eyes as I looked at the beggar's dirty face suddenly shift expression, from one of amusement to one of fear.

I knew, at that moment, that I would've gladly carried my threat through if need be. This man had been nothing but hostile and rude to me - and that side of me that had delighted itself in a Dhorn's death would've delighted in murdering this one as well.

He gulped.

I looked straight into his eyes as he started undressing.

"Faster. No one needs to see your dangly bits."

In response he all but tore his clothes off his body and shoved them right into my hands. My eyes watered at their acrid smell, but I didn't let that deter me angling my knee just so and kicking him right between the legs.

He cried out in pain.

Music to my ears.

"That's what you get for calling me a hooker."

I balled his clothes up in my hand, and left without looking back.

  
It was then that the shadow started singing to me. They'd whisper among themselves as they gathered below my feet. They'd intertwine in my hair while I wasn't looking. They'd curl around my fingers as I slept.

I didn't notice the signs until much, much later, but I remember how weird I felt as I started walking back to The Bear Pit. I hadn't come down from my high just yet - I felt strangely gleeful, even with that pile of filthy rags balled up in my palm.

I felt like I could've taken over the world.

  
Of course, that wasn't really the case. Not just yet. And I was shown my place as soon as I started thinking that.

  
There's an alley, in Southern Betancuria - darker and gloomier than all others. There dwelled Rick Cars and his band of thugs. They'd been going at it for months on end, delighting themselves in all kinds of foul deeds.

Like blackmail, for example.

And I just walked into their alley, none the wiser. The sun had almost completely gone down - it was evening, almost dinner time in The Bear Pit's paces, as my hungry stomach told me. Admittedly, I'd spent a bit just wandering around, seeing the sights, feeling nearly untouchable thanks to my recent success - so I didn't even take notice of all the warning signs.

Like the shadows huddling in the corners.

Like the fact that no one was crossing that particular side of the street.

Like the faces of the women peering from the windows, horrified, part of them just screaming at me to turn my back and head in another direction.

I didn't see any of those.

So I just walked right into Rick Cars' trap.

  
I didn't learn his name until later, of course. Thugs are rarely so courteous as to tell you their names when they're in the process of robbing you blind. And mind you, that's exactly what Rick Cars was - athough in his own head, I'm convinced he thought himself no less than a crime lord, ruling over his little alley and catching clueless girls like me.

It's not like he wasn't nice. Some of the worst men I've met were nice. Suave, too. They'd wear a smile on their face while plotting the best course to take you through hell.

And Rick Cars came up to me wearing the very best of his smiles as I walked through that alley, oblivious, still drunk on my own power.

"Greetings, young lady."

His voice was like honey, sweet and sticky, and it instantly made me uncomfortable. I'd had my share of honeyed words in court, and the difference between that sweet, honeyed cadence and the beggar's vulgarity still ringing in my ears made me stop on my tracks.

That was the first of my mistakes.

The alley itself was almost completely shadowed. In one corner, though, lay a campfire - and around its light gathered several people, both men and women. I didn't know any of them. And one of them - a male, the same one who'd spoken to me - had started walking towards me in a large, decisive strides.

The dark writhed around me.

_Run._

The shadows had whispered in my ear - like they had done so many times, but all I heard was the crackling fire, and the man's steps as they came towards me.

That was my second mistake - one I can only see in hindsight.

And the third followed closely behind.

All of my instincts were screaming at me to run. It was dangerous. I was a lone girl with only a fistful of filthy rags as "weapon". I didn't have any training to begin with, and it should've gone without saying that I would've been an easy prey.

I don't know why I didn't run straight away. I just stared at this man - elegantly dressed, his face clean and shaved even as his eyes leered at me - as he blocked my pathway. Then the rest of his gang shuffled up around us, with the same ease of a pack of predators trapping a cornered prey for the thousandth time.

The man grinned widely at me, a cat about to pounce on the canary. It was his smile that finally opened my eyes, and what made me realize I was in danger.

Again.

Just like Vico, in that laundry room, towering over me, imaginary lips curling into a grin and eyes glittering in the shadows, and the smell of rot and blood and --

"Stay away from me."

The words came out as little more than a screech.

"Now now, lady, there's no reason to be so rude."

"Yeah, pay up, or you better show us that piece of ass."

It was another man who said that - one from my left. Even one of the women laughed at that. Like it was a joke. Like it was _funny_. Like I was nothing but a silly piece of meat.

My heart thrummed so loud in my ears it drowned all other sounds.

"Go fuck yourselves."

I took a step back.

"Why fuck ourselves when we can fuck you, instead."

It was the same man from earlier - and now he was hovering dangerously close to me. I felt, rather than saw, the movement of his hands as they reached towards me - feeling the shift of air and shadows as he moved, smelling the alcohol in his breath as he leaned closer.

\-- the stench of rot and blood and shit and piss and his smile, his smile as he approached --

_Little bird._

And I was in my nightmare again, my parents lying dead on the floor, their throats slit and their eyes looking ahead but never seeing, their lungs never drawing breath again and--

I snapped.

When I came back to my senses, I was huddled in another alley - my clothes intact, save for a telltale tear on my skirt. But I felt no soreness below - only a deep sense of exhaustion as I watched the world pass by from that corner of the world.

I looked down at my hand - where I still held onto the beggar's clothes like my life depended on it. They were still mostly intact as well, save for one, small detail.

They were drenched in blood.

In fact, my whole hand was.

I spent a long while just looking at it, digesting the fact. It's not like I'd never experienced a moon time in my life. In fact, I was unlucky enough that my moon time had a remarkable tendency to bleed a lot more than usual. So much that my parents had contacted several clerics, when my first moon came.

Of course, there's no fix for something brought on by nature.

But I wasn't in my moon time, and the conclusion was obvious enough, even as I kept staring at it, like I was demanding answers from my own bloodied fingers. Seeing your moon blood is different from seeing another human being's blood. I wondered where all that blood came from - who did it belong to?

Was it the suave man?

One of the women?

The one who'd almost grabbed me?

I never remembered. But when I saw Rick Cars again - sleeping peacefully in his bed, not a care in the world - he was sporting a scar on his neck, part of an earlobe missing and a patch of hair that hadn't quite grown to be the same as before again.

I used to think that Vico had left me with a curse. My panic attacks would turn me into a wild, uncontrollable animal, who lashed out at everyone and everything, with no distinction between friend or foe.

But that night with Rick Cars and the rest of his gang - I remade it into a gift.

"Chella."

"Yes, child?"

The night had passed without further incident. I'd slept in my bed, hiding the bloodied rags under it - to show them to Chella as soon as I woke up.

So that's what I did, shoving the bloodied clothes in front of her face.

"Are these okay?"

Her nose wrinkled at the smell first - then her eyes widened in horror as she took in the dark red stains.

"Child. What did you do."

Something - something in the tone of her voice made me want to curl up in shame.

"Did you kill someone on the streets? In broad daylight?"

She sounded so horrified. Like she'd never had a brush with death in her life - like the very idea of killing a lecherous piece of trash was utterly unconceivable.

"No... I didn't."

As I said that, somewhat hesitantly, the woman sighed in relief.

"Thank the Gods, child. You don't need to stain your hands with murder."

She reached out to me - and for a single moment the motion was so eerily evocative of my earlier experience that I almost bolted - and wrapped my hands in her own, rags and all.

"Promise me, Lyanna. If someone..."

The sentence cut off, the meaning hanging heavily between us.

"... please, promise me you will speak to Master Nathan first. He knows how to deal with... things like these."

Her hands were so hot around my own. For the first time, her sympathy struck a cord within me. For me, those were intensely private words. Their meaning resonated deeply within me - and in that moment, I realized I was allowed to feel what I was feeling.

That I could be allowed to want someone dead.

I smiled at her.

Thinking back on it, that was my first smile in months. My face hurt with the effort - the act of curling my lips upwards grown unfamiliar to me.

Chella almost teared up at seeing me smile. And then wrapped me into one of her bear hugs.

The clothes turned out to be fine, after a few days. Once the blood dried up, I scraped it away myself. The stains remained - but eventually, Chella had agreed that they would be all the better to complete my "homeless and destitute" look.

She then offered me a fistful of ashes from the oven - to rub all over my face, she said.

When I finally wrapped up my look, I went and looked at myself in the only mirror we had - the one in the kitchen's quarters, where all of us of the kitchen staff slept every night.

And I saw myself for the first time in months.

I'd been purposefully avoiding the mirror. I didn't wish to look upon my face after all that had happened - that was a hobby I used to have when my parents were still alive. I was a little bird, with very colorful feathers, who loved looking at her own reflection as it stared back at her. But now this bird had shed her feathers off, and felt tiny and ugly and powerless - no longer worthy of seeing her reflection stare back at her.

At that moment, I didn't even recognize myself.

The mirror reflected a willowy, pale ghost of a young girl. Where my cheeks used to be round and lovely in my heart shaped face, her cheeks were gaunt, her high cheekbones made too evident and her face a study in angles, stained in the color of ashes. Where my eyes used to be large and doelike, shining a lovely shade of brown, her eyes were hollow, haunted, darker in color still. Where my hair used to be soft curls of a beautiful shade of dark brown framing my face, her hair were cut in places, sticking out in odd angles.

And where I would normally be wearing a beautiful, jeweled gown - she was wearing rags, stained by shades of old, crusted blood.

The effect was jarring.

"I've caught this one stealing in the common room."

That was meant to be my alibi - Chella's idea. My first, and only, test of deception lay with the two guards upstairs, in front of Master Nathan's quarters. Sam and Lucas.

The one on the left - Sam - frowned at us. Lucas, on the other hand, shot me a dirty glare. One I didn't think he was even capable of making, considering the big, toothy smiles he always showed me whenever I visited Master Nathan.

"You don't have to see Master Nathan for this."

Sam's nose wrinkled in disgust.

"And she smells."

Chella grinned widely.

"Oh, but Master Nathan will want to see her."

"No funny business, then."

It was Lucas who grunted that, still glaring at me. I fidgeted on the spot, nervously - my instincts screaming at me to run right off.

"One wrong step, and she's dead."

Chella laughed at them both as she rubbed the ash off my cheeks.

"Recognize her now?"

The two guards spent a moment just staring at me.

Then at each other.

Then at me again.

And they laughed so loudly my bones shook.

<strike> _Lesson One: Chella, disguising._ </strike>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatting in a nice, readable way that doesn't kill your eyes is such a pain with AO3. :(


	4. Lesson Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Princess learns how to hold a weapon.

Unsurprisingly, my sleep was fitful for several nights after what happened in the dark alley. Visions of dark men hounding my step haunted me whenever I managed to fall into blessed unconsciousness - and I would just wake up again, with heavy breath and a crazed heart. All I could do was just keep laying down the bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind conjuring all kinds of shape and forms from the shadows above.

Sometimes, when I woke like that, Chella would still be awake. And every time, she would come tuck me in - her hands so big and warm against my body, her kiss against my brow a sweet gift instead of an annoyance. She was quite proud of me, the kitchen queen. Even though I'd started warming up to her myself, I still don't think that stealing some man's clothes on the streets was something to be proud of. Neither was having someone rub ashes on my cheeks to make me even more unrecognizable.

My face looked ghostly enough that even Mother probably wouldn't have recognized me at that point, ash or not. And, now that I'd stolen something from someone and left them stranded in the streets, I felt like I was slowly starting to descend into a pit I would never be able to walk out of. But the worst thing is - I didn't really mind. My Mother and Father would've been shocked, had they heard of their sweet little bird stealing. But they were no longer alive, were they?

The next morning, I got out of The Bear Pit with a much slower, much more careful gait. My steps were quiet, rain falling all over - and the commoners were living their lives as I walked among them, just a ghost in the crowd. No one paid attention to me in broad daylight. No one cared to disturb a little girl wrapped head to toe in a heavy, black cloak - one I'd very loudly petitioned Chella for. I was small. I was insignificant. The bustle of life was all around me, unnerving, yet strangely normal - and I moved amongst it like a phantom, like I wasn't quite alive myself. I'd never been in a crowd back when I was in the castle. Even if I were, it would've parted around me - like the sea around that one prophet from days past.

All these people around me should have unnerved me, put me on edge, and they did, but at the same time, the feeling of being unseen was something I couldn't ignore now. Walking past tens and tens of people I didn't know without them bowing was an experience I never could have had if it wasn't for the Dhorn. Not that I was thankful or anything. Seeing them peppered among the crowd - their spears held high, patrolling, sometimes laughing, _laughing like humans_ \- filled me with rage. I was so, so angry. But I wasn't stupid. Not anymore. So I walked past, pretending not to see as they patted each other's shoulders, cheering for another good day of honest work. I wondered if stabbing your long-time ally in the back and conquering their city could ever be considered "honest work".

It didn't take long til I got to Hatori's Tea House. It was just behind the corner from the Bearpit. I had no idea how a Tea House in the middle of Northen Betancuria could have anything to do with fighting - but after the first lesson, I was willing to go through with anything as long as it earned me a fighting chance. "Hey there, cunt! How much?" Looking back on it, that was a daily occurrence - not only in Betancuria, but anywhere. I could've been wrapped head to toe in a cloak and baggy clothes, but some people seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to harrassment. I wasn't the only one undergoing this sort of treatment, either.

It was just a sort of habit for men on the world - something I'd have to deal with a lot more from that moment on. I wasn't stupid anymore. And I was still angry. But I reined my temper in - looked at the man who heckled me straight in the eyes. He was normal looking, perhaps about as old as my Father, but with none of his posture, a scruffle of beard, a pair of moustache. Flattened cheekbones, a nose a little too prominent, cheeks round like a hamster's. Black of eyes and hair. He probably had family at home, a wife stupid enough not to see. Perhaps she'd bore him a son or two, or even a daughter. Perhaps she was even around my age - and she'd probably never seen this side of her own father. I committed his face to memory, every hair on his beard, every crinkle on his brow. The small wart on his forehead. To this day, it is still a crystal clear image, a flash of a face I wouldn't soon forget. I never forget my kills.

* * *

There is something beautiful about death. It is horrifying and disgusting on a gut-wrenching level, like there's some alarm bells going off in your head when you realize another human being is dying in front of you - yet you can't help but _keep looking_. Their bowels stop holding onto their contents, and suddenly the stench of piss and shit fills the air. You look at the scene, your heart leaping like a trapped bird in your ribcage, held somewhere between terror and rapture.

I realize this makes me sound like I'm not mentally sound, saying that I find someone dying and releasing their bowels something beautiful. Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, but truly, who would really want to watch a scene like that, and think it is beautiful?

Well, me. Because more often than not it's my hand that grips the dagger's handle, the same dagger that's just sunk into that person's heart. Or neck. The thought of striking someone's heart is certainly romantic, but in reality, the likehood of pulling it off is so very, very low. The blade would need to sink exactly in the right spot, passing in between one rib and the other, from either the side or the back. 

Do it from the front, and your blade will likely just chip the sternum and perhaps sever a lung or an artery on the way in, resulting in a much slower, messier death. Sever the neck, and the death is quicker, although equally messy. Never underestimate how much blood a severed artery can spurt before it finally stops. But a quick yet careful blade sliding in exactly the correct spot - and you're rewarded with the feeling of piercing something soft and delicate as the victim, suddenly robbed of their heart, dies quickly and painfully. Of course, blood still gets everywhere on your clothes. Occupational hazards.

Back then, though, I didn't know anything about any of this. I'd never held a blade in my hand. During my time at the castle, I'd never been much into swordfighting, although I'd been taught some of the very, very basics. How to grip the handle. How to keep a rapier up for more than three seconds. How to mimick the motions of a very graceful crane whilst pretending to stab at a mannequin.

It was a game, one I wasn't eager to play - and for this matter, my parents weren't fond of it either. My swordplay master was soon dismissed, on the grounds that he'd taught me enough, that a princess like me ought only to know the very basics of self defense in the very unlikely event of someone bypassing her highly-trained, highly skilled guards. I never learned how to hold a rapier properly.

I still don't. I prefer daggers. They're quick, small, easy to hide - all characteristics that make it even easier to slide the blade straight into someone's heart.

But it was only thanks to Hattori that I truly relearned the basics.

He wasn't much of a talker. In fact, when I presented myself to his Tea House, wrapped in that old cloak, he barely spared me more than a passing glance. Which, in truth, was a welcome surprise, especially after the heckler from earlier.

* * *

Hattori was a man the size of an armoire, who owned this tiny, teensy Tea House straight in the middle of Northern Betancuria. His stance was proud, his chin always held high, as he passed through the motions of serving tea and sweetened dumplings to his clients - honoring the traditions of his order, the Tremere.

The Tremere were a fearsome order of monks and weaponmasters, hailing from Elantre. A far-away country, one I'd rarely heard of over the course of my lessons, because the likelihood of having any kind of contact with an Elantrian was next to being null. My history and geography tutor had travelled around quite a lot, but he'd never mustered the courage to cross the Tereve desert to get to either Elantre or Citria, its neighbourhood. On our side of the continent, news of whatever was beyond the desert were scarce and far in between, surrounded by a shroud of myth.

Legends told that Elantrians rode felines double the size of our horses, with long, wide ears and wicked sharp fangs, their furs as gold as the sand. They wore cloaks of snakeskins to stave off the desert heat and nothing underneath, not even a hint of body hair. Their women were so beautiful they could make a man drop dead with a passing glance, and they all had eyes as gold as the sun.

Of course, Hattori checked none of that. He wore perfectly normal clothes. He had an impressive moustache, although there is to say he was completely bald. He never mentioned any monstrous feline mount that he'd left back home. In truth, he barely said anything at all.

I was the one who approached him first.

"Hello? Are you master Hattori?"

I hated to feel and hear the squeak in my voice - I couldn't deny my own nervousness. Amidst all the recent events, I'd grown wary and jumpy. Speaking to a man, one as big as Hattori, set my nerves on fire.

It didn't help that he barely turned when I spoke, his gaze - black eyes with just a hint of gold - just passing straight through me.

"Yes."

I almost fidgeted. Oh, who am I kidding, I full on fidgeted.

"Uhm... I've been told you can teach me how to fight."

The word "fight" apparently perked him up, because at least he turned to face me. Having this impressive bulk of a male suddenly turning his attention to me was even more nerve wracking. I was torn between the desire to flee and the desire to impress - because, yes, I wanted to impress him. I wanted to learn how to fight, properly, this time.

But he said nothing. He just looked at me. I would've defined his stare as expectant, but in reality, it still felt like he wasn't looking at me at all - but somewhere over my shoulder.

"Master Nathan sent me", I added then, as a way of an explanation.

He nodded. Once. Twice.

"Why?"

I cocked my head. He was still looking over my shoulder, like he couldn't quite catch the light.

"Because he told me you can teach me how to fight."

"And why do you want to learn how to fight, _girl_?"

His tone was so dismissive that he might as well have given me a straight up slap right on my face. I hated that fucking condescendence, the straight up dismissal, the interrogation. All because I was a girl, newly turned sixteen, with about as much muscle as a twig.

All because the fact I was a girl was all they bothered to see about me.

If I was angry earlier, now I was furious. I never had much patience to begin with, and this was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back, as far as I was concerned.

"Why do you think?", I snapped. "Are you so blind that only the fact I have tits--"

To his credit, he flinched. As it turned out, he was also actually, physically blind. He could see little more than shadows and hints of movement from the corner of his eyes, but I didn't know at the time.

"--is of any matter to you? I might as well go back outside and tell that dick--"

He flinched again. It appeared that he did not much like cussing.

"--outside that my fee for me showing him my cunt--"

His cheeks became an interesting shade of pink.

"-- is a lesson in swordplay? Or are you perhaps going to pull the same line on me after you've well and thoroughly lectured me on the uselessness of a girl learning how to fight?"

Then I waved an hand at him.

"You know what? Forget it. What are you gonna teach me, anyway? How to pour tea?", I full on mocked him. "Or how to stand into a corner and be pretty? I'm over this, and I'm over you."

The shop had been quiet before. People whispered in low voices, making slow paced, polite conversations, while sipping tea. Most of them discussed geopolitics and ornitology, actually. But by the time I finished giving Hattori a piece of my mind, the hall had fallen into complete, utter silence. Just about everyone had turned towards me - eyes wide as saucers, completely incredulous, some even outraged.

I didn't give a flipping shit, and made for the door.

"Hold up."

It was Hattori's rumbling voice that stopped me on my tracks. And not because it was his, mind you - but because it sounded rather uncertain, perhaps even befuddled.

"I will teach you how to use a sword..."

He stopped, uncertain.

I turned towards him, chin held high.

"Lyanna. Not girl. Not cunt."

He flinched again - and then steeled himself up, his brows furrowing.

"Lyanna", he repeated. "I will teach you. But first, you must show me that there's more to you than a stream of profanities."

And that's how I ended up cleaning up the dishes. That day, the next, the one after - in fact, it became my appointment for the entire week. Reason? Well, I had to pay him back for all the customers I had caused to flee that day. Some of them still flinch whenever they see my face or hear my voice on the streets.

But I also spent that entire week training with Hattori and his student, Taka. Reason? Well, I was there to clean the dishes anyway, so might as well - and apparently, my master had been actually quite impressed with my temper.

Elantrians, apparently, highly valued the ability of speaking one's mind without flinching. In Elantris, debates would last hours and feature cusses and insults of all kinds, to the point they had made it into an actual sport. According to Hattori, I'd straight up won that round - he'd never had a chance.

* * *

Originally, Master Nathan had only asked master Hattori to teach me the basics. Only one weapon, that he would have to gift me afterwards as a token of appreciation for the Family. A single evening of training, during which I would have to pass three simple tests, the final one involving a lizard.

But since Hattori had decided to arrange me a week's worth of training, we went back to the real basics. I held a dagger in my hands for the first time. Its handle felt warm, and it fit so well into my palm - to this day, it is still one of my favorites, and I still care for it, even though I rarely use it. Not because it was pretty, lucky or particularly sharp - it's just because it was my _first_.

Most girls would've spent less time fawning over their first dagger and a lot more fawning over their first love instead. Thoughts of love mattered so very little to me. They tend to lose value quickly when all of your love life was supposed to revolve around your purity of spirit and your virginity - as far as I was concerned, I'd lost the first just as much as the second.

On the first day, Taka showed me through the motions of using a dagger. How it's held, how to point it in the right direction.

"I'll stab them with the pointy end, of course."

He chuckled good-naturedly when I said that. Unlike Hattori, Taka didn't speak at all - although he did make sounds. Just not words. Apparently, as a newly minted initiate of the Tremere order, he had decided to take a vote of silence. It would've lasted for at least for more three years - until he proved himself worthy.

Monks and their fixations.

On the second day, I was taught how to hold my back ramrod straight, and how to keep an opponent from guessing my next move. That, I ended up being particularly good at. Soon enough, I was able to easily deceive Taka. Sometimes, I would even bait Hattori. Acrobatics came next, along with guessing what the other opponent was going to do.

On the third day, just as the sun outside was beginning to fade from the horizon, I was pit against the lizard. Needless to say, this lizard looked nothing like the common household lizards that would crawl up my windowsill to sunbathe. This one was about as big as a guard dog and three times as vicious, with a mawful of sharp teeth and a mouth big enough to swallow me whole.

It wasn't easy, by any means. It was the first time of my life that I truly had to fight to survive, with a weapon at hand. I'd gone through the motions hundreds of time in the last few days, but fighting a lizard hell bent on swallowing you whole was fundamentally different from fighting another human being. 

I'm fairly sure it would've succeeded had Hattori followed Master Nathan's commands to the letter. Even now, straightforward fights aren't my style - and a beast like that lizard, ready to grab any of my legs and whip its head around until I was dismembered, was basically undeceivable. I could not tip toe around it. I could not hope to throw sand in its eyes, because its instincts would allow it to quickly draw membranes over it. And besides, it did not particularly rely on eyesight to begin with.

The fight lasted for an entire hour, in which I only managed to barely scratch at its scaly hide. The lizard, on the other hand, had almost gotten me cornered at least five times, and had managed to scrape my legs with its fangs twice. I was bleeding, although not profusely.

It was pure, dumb luck that I killed it. At some point, it had finally managed to grab me, and somehow I'd ended up with my right arm stuck up its throat already. Taka was just about to come to help me when I turned my dagger so it would stick upwards - the blade parted the lizard's flesh like butter and penetrated its brains.

It resulted in immediate death, and a lot of sticky greyish matter on my hand, mixed with dense, dark green blood. Yes, green. That one, particular lizard species was apparently called Greenblooded Ridgeback. As it turned out, it was pretty typical of the areas surrounding the Tereve desert. Go figure.

In the following days, I learned everything there is to learn about the human anatomy and then some. Instead of making me practice all out fighting, which I obviously wasn't too inclined for, Hattori taught me how to kill.

You see, while the outcome is the same, fighting is different from killing. To fight, one has to move, deceive, learn to read their opponent's mind like it was the brother or the sister they never had, to ultimately strike an effective enough blow. To kill, none of that is necessary. Deception is welcome, of course, but ultimately, one just needs to know where to strike and how. In killing, the only thing that matters is whether or not you know how to best push your blade between your target's ribs to pierce their heart, how to cut a throat without a sound, how to cut where it bleeds and hurts the most when you can't go for the fatal blow immediately.

And for all of that, knowledge on the human body's inner workings is inevitable. Hattori didn't shy away from sharing the gross bits, either. I learned everything I could, soaking it up like a long-dry sponge, especially once he started explaining the subtle art of severing the most efficient veins so targets would slowly bleed out all the while giving up their secrets.

It was evident that master Hattori was most definitely not what he seemed to be - but he seldom spoke of himself during these sessions. He barely spoke at all, unless he was lecturing me. The fact that he was teaching me how to murder a human being in cold blood should've probably made me uncomfortable, but in truth? I wasn't, not at all. All I could do was delight in the knowledge, knowing that one day I would put it to good use.

Then I practiced on a mannequin - one built exactly for the occasion. It had a shell of hardened leather where the bones were supposed to be, and it bled a foul smelling mixture of grease and cider whenever I could strike a vital point. Brain, throat, lungs, heart and anything inside the belly were considered vital points - and some were far more difficult to hit than others.

I don't know if Nathan ever meant for me to come across these pieces of information so early in my training. It was just by the end of the week that Hattori begrudgingly admitted to allowing me to learn far more than I was supposed to.

"How can I ever repay you, master?"

He shrugged, in a way that would've passed off as non-committal to anyone else. 

"Lyanna, I've seen what you keep bottled up within. The rage."

He furrowed his brow.

"I only gave you the means to let it all out. In a way that will serve the Family, while not hurting yourself."

The crease in his brow deepened still, and his tone became more severe.

"I've given you all the knowledge you need. Take care not to waste it."

* * *

As it turned out, I wouldn't waste it. Nothing of Hattori's ever went wasted on me. I wouldn't allow it. It was an unlikely bond, the one forged between the two of us - but somewhere between his lectures, I'd come to care for him, almost like a friend.

But when you're as affection-starved as I was at the time, deceiving you is easy. All it takes is a handful of purposefully misdirected cues. When you're craving for something you don't have, anything that remotely resembles it is akin to water amidst the desert.

It's not like either him or Taka _meant_ to deceive me. I just began to believe into a friendship that was never there.

Months later, they would both die. By my hand or one of my allies - it matters not.  
  


* * *

  
I walked out of Hattori's Tea shop the following day, with a bounce in my steps and two gifts at hand: the first the dagger I'd been using, the second a suit of armor. It was made of soft, supple black leather, something that Hattori no longer used - as such, it was most definitely too large for me to fit.

And so, I was redirected to the local smith.

The smithy was right in Northen Betancuria's main square, where the market was held twice a week. The smith himself was a burly man, with a friendly face and an even friendlier smile, pretty far along in his years, his raven-wing hair streaked with silver.

His name was Richard, but most people simply called him Rick.

He didn't need much time to fit my armor. In two days' time, I had earned myself a suit of black leather armor. It had everything I could ever have desired from it, thanks to all the excess material the old suit had: warm leggins, a pair of boots, several hidden compartments for pouches, two dagger straps, sleeves that would hug my entire arms and, especially, a torso piece that covered my cleavage.

Because, of course, Richard's original intention had been to make an _innovative _set of armor. One that would be both protective and daring, one that would make even housewives suddenly want to take up fighting if it meant wearing an armor like that.

I refused.

It might sound romantic to one who's unused to fighting - but the battlefield is no place for showing off tits. Corsets are tight and hold your lungs into a vise just for the purpose of showing off a woman's assets, except that in the battlefield, those assets do not matter in the slightest.

The brute who's going to brutally murder you will still do so even after you show off your breasts. The difference is that they might go through the trouble of attempting to enjoy their prize first - but the end result is the same. And I had no desire to be seen as a walking hole by the men in town: I'd already had enough of being treated like the only thing that mattered about me was between my legs.

When I came back to him, after a little over a week of sleeping at Hattori's, Master Nathan seemed pleased with me. He eyed the dagger I'd started keeping strapped on the side, just hidden beneath my uniform's skirt - another leftover from the smithy - and, for a moment, I think he even smiled at me.

He was far less pleased when I started making use of Hattori's teachings.

_ <strike>Lesson Two: Hattori, Tea House, fighting.</strike> _


End file.
